


Road to decay

by ShitMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bad guys POV, It sucks being at the frontline, Main characters are scum, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitMouth/pseuds/ShitMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I always wanted to write an asoiaf based war tale told from the perspective of one of those foot soldiers, especially one who is part of those hosts that serve the bad guys. Since the band of foragers led by Gregor Clegane is mostly comprised by scum, and is also one of the few forces to participate in almost all of the battles right from the very beggining of the WoFK at Mummer's Ford, I saw it fitting to have them as the main characters.</p>
<p>This may become the first entry of a series narrated from the POV of several different armies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road to decay

The arrow had been flying astray for what seemed like a nonexistent eternity, searching for a place where it could whistle an end to its lonely flight. The sound of Symond's frantic breathing muffled the arrow's steely thud but not the horse's screeching scream. He had been struggling to control his horse from the very moment he spurred it, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise once he was sent flying when the _damned beast_ collapsed after having one of its limbs pierced by that _seven times buggered arrow_.

  
"Holy s..."- The ground interrupted his words with a painful kiss.

  
Mud tasted horribly bad and blood tasted even worse. Having one's mouth full of both made it difficult to utter any intelligible words, but he did not care; he screamed and cursed, to _the fucker_ who shot the _fucking arrow_ , and to the _fucking horse_ whose deafening howls drowned those of his own. His mind raced with fear, full of thoughts of cruel retributions and inflicting pain, a pain that made him forget the one he felt and gave him just the strength he needed to stand on his feet and start looking for someone upon he could bestow his agony. He drew his knife and lurched aimlessly, haunting the battlefield with his bloodied presence as if he were a wraith.

  
His wandering came to an end when he heard moans coming from below; down there, an agonizing creature was on its back trying to crawl a way out of the place. Symond knelt next to the man, pressing one hand over his neck.

  
-"No more... I-I yield, don’t wanna d..."- Two stabs were more than enough to shut the man up and make him yield to the Stranger.

  
-”Me neither”- Two stabs weren’t enough to satiate his bloodlust, though.

  
Keeping on with the deadly thrusts, he screamed for the both of them. Slowly but rhythmically, the body changed colours; steely grey and muddy brown gave way to bloody red. After a hundred stabs it was time to put the knife to rest, it’d been minutes since any of them felt any pain. Symond stood up and contemplated the crimson mess, a huge contrast to the sky’s light blue with shades of white. Up there a flock of sparrows flew in formation, advancing without opposition across the endless blue; down there on the ford, corpses emerged from the river banks like they were rocks. Following the Ser’s lead, his fellow companions were trying to give chase to the remaining few of the enemy force who’d managed to avoid the slaughter. A dozen of those bastards had taken positions on the other bank and were firing arrows to their horses so as to try slow them down.

  
“ _Well, a’ least I’m not the only one who’ got ‘is horse killed_ ” He took an unsavory comfort at that realization, even if it meant less chances of him getting a replacement for his lost mount; he’d had enough horse riding for a long time.

  
He hadn’t become aware of the loss of his sword till he made to unsheathe it “ _Seven fucks_ ” He needed to hurry up and get another weapon, so he rummaged the body of his victim to check if it had any hidden. “ _Good for nothin’ piece o’ shit_ ” The wretched fool must’ve left it somewhere along his pathetic attempt of a escape “ _Better try look for ‘it from where he cam_ e” He traced back through the trail of blood, stopping on his feet when he found a spear embedded into the eye of a dead horse which must’ve been that of the dead bastard. Pulling out the lance, he cursed when blood gushed from the wound and splattered his face. He couldn't see anything, and to make things worse, he'd just felt a hand grabbing him firmly by his shoulder. Acting on instinct, he hit the attacker on the gut with the back of the shaft and did a quick roll to his left side. His heart was racing and his legs were shaking, but he was ready to leap with his knife. His foe rushed to grab his wrist as he motioned a slash, and the struggle ensued.

  
-“Ey, Im an a-ll…, whatcha problem?”- Groaned his attacker.

  
-“Wha- whatdda hells your sayin’ fucker?”- He breathed, grabbing his knife-wielding hand with the other so as to add force to his press. At the moment, all words were noise to him, all attempts at talking a death warrant.

  
A knee found its way to his crotch. Dropping his weapon, he knelt, gasping for air. He was going to die and all he could see was horse’s blood leaking through his visor.

  
-“Ally! I’m an ally! Fight’s over”- Yelled his comrade, kicking him in the face. Now the back of his helmet was as muddied as his face.-“Now calm down if ‘u don’t wanna lose yer teeth”- Warned.

  
-“O-over?”- Uttered Symond, dumbfounded. He needed time to calm and to try to recollect his thoughts.

  
Was it the news or the threat what shook him out of his stupor? Father used to tell him that the only thing that kept brash slow-witted lads like him in line was a good beating. That was namedays ago, and though he was now a man well past the flower of youth, its truth still resonated deeply in his memory. It took quite some effort to sit up on one of his elbows, so removing the annoying helmet became a real nuisance.

  
-“Yeah, those archers all tried to cover the Ser with their arrows once he managed to cross the ford and run over two of ‘em with ‘is stallion. And I swear to the Warrior, the beast seems made o’ stone, goin’ on as it were spittle! Gave us time to give ‘em a taste o’ their own medicine; now they’re the ones lookin’ like straw dummies”- Chuckled Tobbot as he turned his head to rejoice at the sight of the scene he was describing.

  
-“Serves those buggers right”- He said, throwing the damned gear away. His only rue was not having a chance to pierce one of them as payback for his falling off a horse. -“Fuck and another thousand fucks, ‘u almost had us killed, dumbass, what were ‘u tryin’, scare me to death?”-

  
-“We saw ‘u goin’ about crouchin’ down. Polliver said ‘u were withdrawin’ and sent me to fetch ‘u”- “ _Or kill you_ ” Remained unsaid but clearly implicit.

  
-“I was lookin’ for weapons, I lost mine when I fell off my stupid horse” –

  
His companion cracked into laughter. –“I knew you would be doin’ somethin’ o’ the like, ‘ur some really thick headed fellow, but not even ‘u would be so dumb so as to try to run away when we’re winnin’ ”- How great, now he would have to bear with that mocking grin for the remainder of the day. –“C’mon, get up before I have a change o’ mind and decide to drop ‘u dead right ‘ere, Ser killed Pate for standin’ there lookin’ while those cravens ran away”-

  
Both made off to cross to the other side of the ford, where the battalion was regrouping. Halfway through their walk, Symond stopped on his tracks to behold the Crimson army atop the nearby hills “ _Could of helpt’us, rats_ ” There were enough men up there to make the whole river bleed and yet they did nothing while the slaughter unfolded in front of them. Not that it would have made that big of a difference, since they were faring quite well on their own, but still, he couldn’t come to understand why someone would bring such a host to a battle just to watch from a high place.

  
There was no time for greetings, since they were welcomed by barks from their commander as soon as they were with the rest.

  
-“Get atop your mounts and move on, or I’ll kill the lot of you”- all of them made to climb on the backs of their horses, except for him and another three soldiers.

  
-“You” -Pointed the Ser to them. –“What were you doing?” His tone was that of one who would kill if he didn’t get an immediate response of his liking.

  
-“Cuttin’ beggin’ throats, Ser”- He motioned his head to the place of the carnage. -“Some o’ those fuckers where tryin’ to crawl their way out like fuckin’ worms so we made ‘em food for the real ones”-

  
His answer seemed to please him greatly, judging by his reaction. –“You will get Pate’s helm and sword, Shitmouth. The four of you will follow us on foot. Better keep pace with us, or I’ll dispose of you like the useless bunch you are”- Some of the men laughed at hearing his nickname, the Ser quieted them with a turn of his head. – “Lord Tywin demands we join his force, now”-

  
And so, leaving the ravaged corpses of allies and foes alike behind, they marched; silent, steady and focused. There was no time for treating wounds, nor crying for the unfortunate friends who got chosen to make eternal company to their fallen foes. There was no time for small talk to keep themselves distracted. The only sound was the monotonous conversation of clacking hooves and tinkling armor. Maybe it was best that way, he wasn’t in the mood of having feelings.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I chose Shitmouth as my main character for several reasons. I was tempted to have Chiswyck or Rafford as the main character, but I found them to be too evil for a main character and, as in the former case, too seasoned. Poliver and the Tickler were both out of the question, so that left me with three options; Shitmouth, Dunsen or an OC ( Now that i think of it,Dunsen would be basically an OC with a borrowed name). I wanted my main character to have his own characteristical behaviour and mannerisms while, at the same time, being as relatable to the average reader as a murderer and rapist can be, and so I chose Shitmouth.
> 
> Now about the Symond issue. He was supposed to be named Lann or Pate, since both seem to be common names in the Westerlands. However, Lann sounded too highborn for my taste and I have the feeling that if his name were Pate, it would of have been mentioned in aFfC; and so I chose Symond merely for alliterative reasons.
> 
> About the way I depict battles; gloryfying war is not my style, less so when we are treating with a subject so delicate as the genocidal raids carried on by Clegane and his men on the Riverlands. Besides, I think most lowborn troops would find the war affairs to be a rather dirty matter, considerably less glamorous than the idealized concept that the highborns have. 
> 
> P.S: Any criticism about the way I write the dialogues (and the whole work, for that matter) would be really appreciated. I'm not a native english speaker, so I find it really hard to emulate that coloquial slang without making it sound too contemporary.


End file.
